Greater Things
by JessReyes
Summary: Prequel to Flesh and Blood. Mulder and Scully investigate a series of death threats made to the leader of an Evangelical mission in Kenwood, Tennessee. Scully's interest in the case worries Mulder, particularly since her cancer diagnosis, but he gives her the benefit of the doubt. Could the minister offer her what she so desperately needs?
1. Chapter 1

Dear Constant Readers,

I really should have posted this one first, but it needed a little more work than _Flesh and Blood_. Actually, I wasn't going to post it at all, but I figured the story had merit, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. It should be read before Flesh and Blood really, but it won't do any harm if you read that one first. It is Cancer Arc, so I know that's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but it's something that I wanted to explore at the time I wrote it. Anyway, enough from me. I hope you enjoy. :-)

* * *

**WASHINGTON D.C.**

**OCTOBER 17****th****, 1997**

Mulder listened to the rain as it beat against his windshield, the rhythmic thump of his wipers, and the soft yet persistent rush of the tires against the wet asphalt as he drove, watching the city drift by the windows.

He'd been travelling this road for more years than he cared to remember, though much had changed in the view. Buildings had fallen and risen again like phoenixes from the ashes, trees had been planted and felled, people had come and gone. It was something he had come to accept, the transient nature of the fabric of life. Things that he wished would last forever were little more than fleeting windows into everything that could be, while things that he yearned to change were as enduring as the Rockies; taxes, rent payments, the woman next door who insisted on waking him every morning at five o'clock with the goddamned radio, and the traffic on the I395 during rush hour. He supposed that the old adage of familiarity breeding contempt was pretty accurate when it came to the daily commute from his apartment in Alexandria, but it was a small price to pay for the job that had given him a purpose, a cause, a reason to exist during some of the most difficult periods of his life.

He loved his work, and always had, but during the last few years, there was one other reason that had kept him coming back to his office every day; one person in whom he had confided his deepest secrets…the one person who had helped shed light into the darkest parts of his soul.

He wound down the window to let in some air when he felt tension creep across his throat that was becoming as familiar as the twinge from an old bullet wound. Though he tried to distract himself with the scenery, the radio, and thoughts of a possible Bigfoot sighting case that had come across his desk the previous week, it was futile.

There was something else on his mind, something that would not be pushed away.

The buildings, the people on the sidewalks, the other cars around him all melded together in a dull, gray urban blur as his attention drifted until he was no longer in the car, but in the medical center with his partner, Dana Scully, where, just two months ago, she'd been told she had cancer.

He had felt the blow as keenly as she had. Like someone had reached into his body and ripped out his guts, leaving a hollow that would forever make him incomplete. She had been his partner for almost four years, but more than that, she was his friend. Just about the best friend he had ever had. All he had done since he heard the news was wish that it could have been him. He would never forget her emerging from the hospital room with that haunted expression on her face that had given him the answer to his question before the words had even been born upon his lips. She said nothing, silent tears forming briefly in her eyes before she wiped them away, leaving him to only imagine how she must be feeling as she walked with him along the corridor, passing the private rooms with their closed shutters, wondering when her own turn would come to be staring into the abyss.

But how could he possibly imagine how she felt? How does it feel to be told your time is no longer to be marked in years and decades, but in months, days, hours? He supposed that, being Dana, she would be resigned to the fact; quiet acceptance of her destiny, her strength derived from her faith. He wished that he could understand that, but he had stopped believing in deities when his sister had been abducted. For years he had dedicated his life to the search for her. He had sacrificed so much – his father, his position in the BSU, the respect he had once had from his colleagues who now found him little more than a joke, and now it looked as though he was going to lose her, too.

And it was his fault. She had been abducted and abused because of him, and as a result of the experiments that had been performed on her, she was dying.

He wasn't sure how much more loss a man could possibly bear in one lifetime.

She denied that her illness was as severe as the doctors had tried to make it sound. She denied the headaches he knew she endured, made excuses about not having her glasses with her when she had trouble reading, tried to cover up her nausea, sickness and lack of appetite by saying that she'd already eaten or that she'd get something later, and blamed the heels she wore when she sometimes lost her balance and stumbled. But despite her denials, he knew that she was getting worse. She was losing weight. She tired so quickly, too, yet couldn't sleep properly at night. She often called him at late hours for trivial things, although he was pleased just to hear her voice…to know that someone needed him. Perhaps she knew him well enough to know that he too suffered insomnia and had done for many years, though it had been a hundred times worse since her diagnosis.

The conversation was rarely earth-shattering; the latest Knicks game, a story in the news, tales of outlandish behavior at college or comparisons of track times and shooting range scores earned at Quantico…_anything_ except her illness. He didn't blame her. He supposed he wouldn't want constant reminders if he were sick and he certainly didn't want to discuss his feelings of grief, helplessness, even guilt at being unable to find anything comforting to say or do for her. At least, nothing that felt adequate. In any case, Dana wasn't the kind of person to dwell on the darker side of things. Maybe she _was_ trying to find a way to confide in him, to put her fears and worries into words, or maybe she just wanted to hear a voice of reality and reason in the long, dark loneliness of the night. He didn't mind, so long as she derived as much comfort from the conversations as he did. But he still worried about what she did when the receiver was replaced. Did she lie awake? Did she worry? Did she feel lonely? Frightened? Did she stare up at her ceiling and see the darkness waiting there and feel it reaching out to her like a phantom trying to claim her soul? The haunting image of her lying alone in the dark, desperate for some reassurance that she would be alright was just too much for him. He felt it in the pit of his stomach like a ton weight, snapping his attention back to the road just in time to hear the blaring of car horns behind him as he shot through an intersection without stopping.

'Shit, Mulder,' he said to himself. 'You're not much good to anyone dead.'

As he approached the office on Pennsylvania Avenue, he flicked on his indicator, turned into the car lot and drove to his usual space. He turned off the engine and sat in the silence, hearing nothing except his own heartbeat and the ticking of the cooling engine as he tried to get himself together. He had to maintain his facade for her sake. She didn't need his pity or to see the pain and sorrow in his eyes born of his frustration at being unable to do anything for her. She needed his strength now more than ever, and he would always be there for her, just as she had always been there for him.

He was early again. Most of his colleagues were still stuck in rush hour traffic that he rose early to try and avoid, so he was surprised to see a desk lamp lit, coffee already brewed, and Scully's desk already occupied. Case files, black and white photographs, notepads and memos were piled in front of her, her sleeves were rolled back and she had twisted up her red hair at the back of her head with a pencil.

She took off her glasses, looked up at him and smiled. 'Hey, you. Couldn't sleep again, huh?'

'Look who's talking,' he said as he hung up his coat. 'How long have you been here?'

'Since about 5.30, I think,' she replied, yawning. 'Don't look at me like that, Mulder. I'm okay. I just have a lot of reading I wanted to do. That file there came down yesterday from the Memphis office.' She nodded toward the open folder on his desk.

He poured himself a coffee and sat down. 'What is it?'

'It's a report made by a Reverend William Cork, the founder of Cork Evangelical Ministries, based in Memphis, but with missions operating throughout the entire southeast. It seems as though someone has been issuing him with death threats as a result of claims he has been making at his meetings that he has healing abilities.'

He tried his best to stifle a smile. 'You're kidding me, right?'

'I know, I know. But I guess someone out there is taking his claims pretty seriously. Seriously enough to send him poison pen letters with razors glued on the inside of the envelopes anyway. Apparently, he's been receiving the letters for some time, but only now has decided to make a formal report. I guess the razors made him realize that whoever is making these threats has decided to make good on them. Memphis PD forwarded the report to the FBI.'

He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt as he read through the case notes she had already made, the crime lab reports on the envelope and note, and Reverend Cork's statement. He couldn't deny that there did seem to be something worth investigating there; he supposed he was just a little worried about her interest in this case. It wasn't exactly her thing, and they both knew that this wasn't ordinarily something that the Bureau would have taken a great deal of interest in, even to send it down to the basement. Still, the travel requisition was in the file and had already been approved, so it seemed as though she had already made the decision for them both. He could only imagine what she must have told SAIC Skinner to get his signature on those papers, but then she always did have a way with people.

'So, what do you think?'

He finished his coffee and closed the file. 'I think I'm curious as to why you're so interested in this case.'

'Alright, alright…maybe I do have some personal motivation in this,' she admitted, dropping her gaze to the file that now lay on the table between them. 'I don't need your judgment or teasing right now, alright? So just save the - '

'Hey…hey,' he whispered, daring to lay his hand over hers. 'Don't you know me better than that?'

He hadn't seen tears within her eyes since the day she was diagnosed and it both surprised and unsettled him to see them there now. He wondered why she was feeling so vulnerable today, and why someone who had always held her faith so sacred would now be interested in the type of evangelical ministry that she had always despised. It indicated a kind of desperation which made him feel sick, making him believe that she was hiding far more about her condition than she was prepared to admit.

His heart ached when she turned her hand over to grasp his fingers. She had never been a particularly demonstrative woman, and certainly had never been the type of person who usually wears their heart on their sleeve. To sit there like that, with tears in her eyes, clutching his hand so desperately, was like the first gentle tremors along the San Andreas fault – nothing but a clear indication that something was horrifically, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

'We're all entitled to at least one miracle in a lifetime, aren't we?'

He was suddenly unable to look at her anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**KENWOOD, BRIGHTON**

**TENESSEE**

**OCTOBER 18****TH**** 1997**

**10:13AM**

The meeting tent stood in the middle of a beautiful park just a short drive away from their motel and a queue was already beginning to form outside. It was cold and gray, and rain was beginning to spit against the tarpaulin walls, but it didn't seem to be bothering the gathering crowd who sheltered beneath a rainbow of umbrellas, chatting and laughing, buoyant with hope, faith and anticipation of the miracles they believed they were about to witness.

Scully watched them through the rain-spattered car window, hugging herself to try and keep warm even though the heater was turned up full and Mulder was sweating as though he were in a steam room. She was staring at them as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, perhaps wondering what could be wrong with them when, for the most part, they seemed to be perfectly healthy, though she knew from her own experience that outward appearances didn't always betray the darkness within.

'Penny for them?'

She blinked and sighed. 'I was just thinking how much I envy those people. They all derive such strength from their faith, even in the face of serious illness. I just wish sometimes that I could feel just a little part of that. I believe, Mulder, I really do. I guess I have to, or I'm not sure I would be able to cope. But my beliefs – not only don't they bring me comfort, but sometimes they don't even make much sense to me anymore.' She opened the window just a little because the glass was beginning to fog. 'Perhaps that's why they can be cured. Because their faith really is that strong, or because they're capable of that level of positive thought. I don't understand how they can trust in something so completely when all they do is suffer and pray for deliverance that just never seems to come.'

'I guess not all people who are miraculously healed believe in God. There have been so-called faith healers and miracle workers around for years, and I have read about cases where even doubters have been healed. I think that no matter what you really have faith in, whether you believe in God or the healer themselves, the real ability to heal comes from a strong enough desire to be well. Personally, I think that most of these guys are charlatans out to make money from vulnerable people and for that alone they should rot in prison. I'm not saying that miracles can't happen because there are countless cases where that's exactly what seems to have happened. I guess I'm just questioning the original diagnoses.'

'You're probably right,' she said with a tired sort of smile. 'But you can't deny that whether something miraculous is happening or not, these people seem to leave the meetings happier than they were when they went in. I don't think there's anything wrong with seeking just a little peace of mind, wherever you manage to find it.'

'No, I guess not. It's just these televangelists that I don't have too much time for. They're selling ideals that don't exist, making people believe that their happiness and even the salvation of their souls depends on parting with hard earned cash in exchange for pieces of blessed microfiber cloth and fully illustrated copies of _Hymns for Every Occasion_. It's sheer exploitation for profit.'

Silence fell as she turned away from him to watch the queue finally moving into the tent. He knew the reasons for this crisis of faith she seemed to be having and understood her interest in this case now more than ever. Although she always wore a cross, she'd hardly attended church since leaving home and the few times she had attended confession over the past few years could be counted on one hand. Yet now the little faith she had was failing her, and so she was seeking her peace of mind elsewhere. It troubled him deeply because he knew that there had been a time when she would have been as cynical as he was about this sort of thing, but she wasn't thinking clearly. Her desperation was leaking through into everything she did, everything she said, yet he didn't pity her or feel sorry for her. He just felt an immense sadness, a crushing wave that threatened to engulf him. The heaviness in his chest pushed toward his throat, and he felt tears burning in his eyes. He furiously blinked them back, refusing to show her how he felt now when she most needed his strength and support.

'I guess we'd better go,' he said, getting out of the car. She didn't seem to hear him. She just kept staring out of the window.

'Scully? Are you alright?'

'Yeah,' she said dreamily, then, 'yes. Sorry.'

He walked around to her side of the car and opened the door for her.

'Are you sure? We don't have to do this now. There's another meeting tomorrow if you're not up to this.'

'I'm fine, Mulder,' she said, slamming the door a little too hard. She softened when she saw the concern in his face. 'You shouldn't worry about me so much. I'm okay.'

They joined the queue, took a promotional flyer from the attendant at the door, and went to sit at the back. Despite the cold outside, body heat from the crowd kept the tent warm. In front of them on either side of the stage were huge bouquets of brightly colored flowers erupting from three legged wrought iron stands. Behind the stage was a particularly graphic depiction of The Passion, which would probably be justified by the artistic community as realism. Not a single one of the cheap foldaway chairs remained empty, and the atmosphere was almost electric with anticipation.

Scully turned to look at him and must have misread the smile playing upon his lips as enjoyment.

'Do you come here often or something?' she asked.

'Are you hitting on me, Agent Scully?'

She pursed her lips at him in amused derision as the dull rumble of low conversations faded away. From behind a curtain to the left of the stage a young man holding a microphone had appeared.

'Well now, it's a real pleasure to see so many of you here today, challenging the inclement weather. We bid you the warmest of welcomes to the first meeting that Cork Ministries has held in this beautiful town. We hope that, with the good Lord's blessing, you will all find what you came here to seek. Amen!'

'Amen!' the crowd replied. Mulder looked around and wondered if he was the only one feeling like a vegetarian at the annual cookout.

'Now, if you could all please give a very warm welcome to the man whom the Lord has chosen to be His blessed voice here today, the Reverend William Cork!'

At the invitation, the crowd began applauding and singing along with the gospel choir, which probably would have been pretty good had they actually been present and not pre-recorded onto CD. The Reverend flamboyantly threw back the stage curtain and raised his arms expectantly as though he had already wowed them all by arriving on the back of the flaming wings of an angel.

He was a tall, well-built man in his early-fifties with a slightly receding hair line. He had strong features and, despite his rather over-the-top entrance, his eyes were kind and his huge smile made him seem years younger than he probably was. Mulder had to admit to being surprised by him in more ways than one. He wore a smart, navy-blue suit with a small red carnation in the lapel, and around his neck had a small gold cross not dissimilar to Scully's, with no trace of the multitude of gold chains and rings that he had always imagined evangelists to be draped in.

The Reverend eventually made his way up to the stage, lowered his arms and lifted the microphone. Again, the crowd fell silent as the music stopped.

'My dear, dear friends,' he began with a voice like molasses, 'you are all so very welcome, and I thank you for joining us. But we are not the only ones present here today. Oh no. Someone else is here. I feel the presence of the good Lord here today! Amen.'

The crowd replied with shouts of 'Hallelujah!' and 'Praise the Lord!'

Beside Mulder, Scully shifted uncomfortably. He looked over to see her playing with her cross, a nervous action which was completely unlike her. Perhaps it was because they were the only two people there who weren't joining in with the 'Hallelujahs'. Or maybe it was something else.

'Scully? You okay?'

'I'm fine. Bit of a headache, that's all. It'll go.'

'You know who causes your suffering, my friends. You know who plagues us and tempts us to draw us from the one true path of the Lord. But the vile one will not triumph over the might of the Lord, and He will overcome today! Through me, his devoted servant, He will make his power known today! Praise the Lord!'

'Amen!' replied the crowd, bibles and rosaries in hand.

Reverend Cork moved down from the stage and approached a pretty young woman with tight brown curls sitting in a wheelchair in the front row. He put his hand on her forehead.

'Oh, yes, my dear friend. I see you were injured in a car wreck.' He closed his eyes, and tilted his head back as if searching for inspiration from a higher plane. 'You have been angry with the Lord. You have begged him to show you a reason for your suffering, and turned from Him in your weaker moments, but He understands. He is always there for you, even if you can't always feel Him. He understands the hardships that we must endure, but it is only through hardships that His miracles can be known. We need to know the darkness of night so that we may appreciate His gift of light. The Lord understands your pain, and through your belief in Him, He will heal you of your demons today.'

'I believe, Reverend', the woman sobbed, reaching for her husband's hand. 'I do believe!'

'Do you believe that the Lord can save you?'

'I do, Reverend!'

'You shall walk again! The Lord will save all those who believe!' He then touched her forehead and cried out, 'Lord! Help this woman! Show her and all your people here your compassion and mercy! Demonstrate your power here today!'

The woman seemed to shiver, then just a short time after the Reverend had touched her, he moved his hands down to hers to help her from the wheelchair.

'The Lord has cleansed you of your demons! Rise from your chair and walk!' He gently pulled her to her feet, her husband anxiously holding out his arm behind her.

'You know, Scully,' said Mulder, leaning over to her, 'these kinds of instant results seem just a bit gimmicky, don't you think? She's probably a plant. You know? Just to get the crowd warmed up and in a generous mood before the collection plate comes around.'

She didn't reply. She seemed enthralled, watching the apparent miracle in front of her as the woman stood and, leaning on her husband, slowly took a few steps. She started to cry, thanking the Reverend over and over, and crying out, 'Praise the Lord!'

The whole crowd joined her in echoes of 'Amen!' and 'Praise the Lord!'

Then a trickle of blood began to flow from Scully's nose over her milk-white skin. The pain that cramped Mulder's gut then was as though the injury was his. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and offered it to her.

'Dana', he said quietly.

She seemed momentarily surprised, and then, realizing what was wrong, took it from him.

'Oh, God...thank you.' She dabbed at her nose. 'I'd better go outside.'

'I'll come with you,' he said, starting to stand before she put a hand on his shoulder.

'No. You stay here and finish the meeting. I'll see you later.'

He watched her stand and leave with his heart throbbing in his throat, wishing that he could find it somewhere within him to believe in miracles.

Forty five minutes later, people started filing out of the tent, most of them seeming to be much happier than when they went in. Scully was sitting on one of the park benches a few yards away beneath the shelter of an oak tree, her red hair playfully ruffled by the gentle breeze that had arisen since the rain had stopped. Her nosebleed had stopped too, but evidently she hadn't wanted to come back into the meeting. She waved at him.

'You made it through the whole meeting. I'm impressed,' she said with a wry smile. 'So how did it go?'

'Oh, pretty much as you'd expect. The paralyzed can walk, the deaf can hear, blind can see. I'm still just about ready to be certified, but I guess he can't heal everyone.' He was glad to hear her soft, gentle laughter. 'You okay?'

She stuffed her hands into her pockets and shivered. 'I'm fine. I just felt a little light headed. I think it was the heat in there.'

He wasn't convinced. It had been warm, but not uncomfortably so. 'Well, if you're feeling better, we should go see the Reverend before he leaves.'

She slipped the bloodstained handkerchief into her pocket as she stood up. 'Sure.'

Two of the Reverend's staff were pulling the plastic doors closed on the tent.

'Good morning,' he said, opening up his badge. 'Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Dana Scully. We're here to see Reverend Cork. He should be expecting us.'

'Oh, yes,' said one of the men, pushing back his baseball cap that declared _Jesus Saves_. 'He did say some folks from the FBI might be dropping by. Come on in.'

There were a few other attendants inside piling up the chairs, picking up litter and putting the proceeds from the collection plate into a black cash box. Reverend Cork was wrapping up his bible and large crucifix in a black leather case. He looked up as he heard the agents approach and smiled.

'Ah, Agent Mulder, I'm glad you could come. Did you enjoy the meeting?'

'Yes, it was quite…an experience.'

Reverend Cork thanked the attendants and told them to finish up later. 'Yes, the miracles of the Lord are most impressive. I'm sorry you couldn't stay for the whole meeting, Agent…Scully, was it?'

'Yes. I'm pleased to meet you, Reverend', she said, shaking his hand. 'I'm sorry about that. Slight headache.'

He moved towards her, closing his eyes and reaching out his hand toward her forehead. Mulder was surprised that she had allowed him to touch her when ordinarily she would have run a mile. 'Oh, I think we both know it is more than that, Agent Scully. Will you let - '

She backed away as soon as she saw the concern furrowing his brow. 'No, thank you. Perhaps we could return to the reason we're here.'

He sighed as he opened his eyes and lowered his hands, fixing Scully with a look of disappointment and…_pity_?

'Not all who need healing will acknowledge it. Neither do all who need healing believe. Many who come here feel as if the Lord has deserted them, yet they come. Why do you think that is?'

She raised an eyebrow at the strange question. 'I…I don't know. Perhaps when conventional medicine has failed, they feel they have nothing else to lose. I have no doubt that people who come here are healed, Reverend. I just doubt that any miracles have occurred. I have great faith in the human mind, its ability to heal itself and even others.'

'Exactly, Miss Scully,' he said smiling. 'Do you know, no-one ever truly loses their faith. Oh they think they do, but they don't. The old saying about there being no atheists in fox holes is truer than you might think. In a man's darkest moments, he always asks God for help. But the Lord doesn't care whether you believe in Him or not. You are still his child and He will help you. If God made us all, then didn't He also make our minds? We are all part of God, therefore capable of healing ourselves. Do you see, Miss Scully, you cannot believe in one without the other.'

'Let's just stay on the matter in hand, Reverend,' said Mulder, not wanting to enter in to a religious debate and suddenly feeling very protective toward Scully whose face had flushed as she had retreated into an uncharacteristic silence. 'You contacted us because you have been receiving threats.'

'Yes, Agent Mulder. Please, sit down.' He sat on the edge of the stage, indicating for Mulder and Scully to take the front row seats facing him. 'It's really been quite distressing. I'm afraid I'm at a complete loss to understand why anyone should want to threaten me. All I have ever tried to do is help and minister to people to the best of my abilities.'

Mulder leaned back in his seat and took out a notepad and pencil. 'I'm sure you have, Reverend, but people can often feel aggrieved over some very petty things. Most don't get to the stage of issuing threats though. What we need to establish is if it's possible for this person to have the motivation, ability and inclination to act upon them.'

'Well, by that reasoning, Agent Mulder, I suppose I have a great deal to worry about.'

He smiled reassuringly. 'Realistically, it's very unlikely for anything to move beyond a threat. People just need to vent occasionally.'

The Reverend took a deep breath and sighed as he considered. Mulder could see a memory flicker briefly through his mind because it registered in the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. He cleared his throat and murmured, 'There was one…_incident_ I probably should mention. Thoroughly unpleasant, I should add, and not something I'm used to dealing with.'

'That's fine. We need a place to start.'

'A few weeks ago, a young man disrupted a meeting we held in Philadelphia. About halfway through, he stood up, pointed at me and started yelling about false prophets and fake healings. He said that the Lord gives the true gift of healing to a chosen few, and I wasn't one of them.'

'That must have upset you, Reverend.'

'I think I was more surprised than upset. You can't answer a calling like mine and not expect the odd fanatic, you know, but they are generally just a little enthusiastic rather than rude or unwanted. I have men at the door here who are very rarely called upon, but I am sad to say that the young man had to be forcibly removed. I wish I could tell you where he went after he left the meeting, but I'm afraid he wasn't anywhere near the tent. My staff searched for him. I was disappointed as I would have liked to speak with him, but I suppose the Lord did not wish me to.'

'Did you have any idea who he was?'

Reverend Cork nodded. 'I'm sorry to say, but yes. I believe his name was Virgil Anderson. He is the son of a man who used to be my friend until I discovered that he was more interested in making money than saving souls. He died many years ago now. Virgil was raised by his grandparents.'

'Virgil? Not a name you hear very often.'

'No. His father was a great appreciator of Dante, I believe.'

'Could you describe Anderson for us?'

'Of course. He would be around twenty five now, black hair, around six foot, six foot two, maybe, slim build, clean shaven. Good looking boy. Was never short of female admirers.'

'And you could identify him if you were to see him again.'

'Definitely.'

Mulder nodded as he jotted everything down. Virgil Anderson was looking like a promising initial suspect, though he'd been doing the job for too many years to leap to obvious conclusions.

'You mentioned in your report about threatening letters. How many have you received?'

'Two. The first came about four or five weeks ago. I thought it was a crank so I ignored it. I felt it wouldn't be wise to ignore the second that came just a few days ago, particularly considering the blades.'

'So they started after the incident at the meeting?'

'Yes, actually. Now I think about it.'

'Do you still have the letters?'

'I do. I'll get them for you.'

The Reverend went behind one of the curtains that led backstage. The envelope with the razors secured inside had been placed in a plastic bag. The letters themselves were folded into the back of the Reverend's diary. As he handed them to Mulder, he saw that they weren't letters so much as scrawlings on the back of pictures that appeared to have been computer printed. One depicted a ruined city with the clouds forming the countenance of an angel blowing a trumpet, the other was a copy of the dark _Babylon Fallen _by Gustave Dore. On the back of the first the numbers 23136/13 had been written, on the second 40715/17 had been hastily scrawled alongside the words, '_Take heed, Reverend_.'

'The first was posted from Atlanta, Georgia, as you can see from the postmark on the envelope. The second came from here, in Brighton. A little worrying, as I'm sure you can imagine.'

'How long have you been staying here?' Mulder asked him.

'Since last Monday. I suppose anyone could have sent it. My residence here is public knowledge.'

'Do you think Anderson would be capable of sending you something like this?'

'In all honesty, I don't know. I would have said no, had you asked me a few months ago. Virgil was always such a promising young man. Kind. Thoughtful. Not a vicious or cruel bone in his body. Though he lost his parents so young, he was, in many other ways, very blessed. I don't understand his behavior at the meeting.'

'Your meetings, Reverend, are they publicized in advance?'

'Yes, they are. I advertise in the local papers normally, but occasionally I post bills around in local stores, too.'

'Well, it's early days, but we will do our best to check on Anderson. Do you know if any other preachers have received letters like this?' He handed the pictures to Scully, who turned them over to examine the numbers on the back.

'Not that I know of, Agent Mulder. But then I don't often have the opportunity to meet with fellow men of God. I don't tend to socialize much, the Lord keeps me too busy for that.'

'Do you have any idea what the numbers mean, Reverend?' asked Scully.

'No, I'm sorry. Do you think I have reason to worry?'

'No, I wouldn't say so,' said Mulder. 'Even if Anderson did send you this, from what you said, he doesn't seem to be a violent person. I think if he had any more to say to you or if he planned on doing anything, I'm sure he would have done so when he had the chance. There's nothing overtly threatening in the letter and most of the time this type of thing is designed just to intimidate. We'll have someone stay at your hotel though, just to be on the safe side. Do you mind if we take the letters?'

'Good Lord, no!' said the Reverend. 'I'd be glad to have them out of my possession, Agent Mulder.'

'We'll take them to the lab, see if maybe we can get some fingerprints and DNA. Possibly a handwriting analysis too. We'll also do a little background work on Virgil Anderson. We'll be around for a few days yet, so if you need us for anything, here's my cell-phone number where I can be reached at anytime.'

Mulder reached for his wallet, took out a card and handed it to Reverend Cork.

'We'll see if we can find out what these numbers might refer to as well. Hopefully we'll have something for you within the next day or so,' added Scully.

'Good. I look forward to hearing from you.'

They were almost at the tarpaulin doors when Reverend Cork stopped them.

'Agent Scully?'

She turned around.

'You don't have to believe in the Lord for His miracles to touch your life. He believes in you, and His patience is never ending. When you are ready, He will be waiting.'

She smiled politely, but Mulder could see the embarrassment mixed with a touch of anger in her eyes at the perceived invasion of her privacy. Without another word, she left the tent.

Back outside, the clouds had finally relented and began to release the full force of the rain they had promised as lightning flickered on the horizon. It came down hard and fast, forming streams and puddles along the pathway and hollows in the grass, rapidly turning the ground into mud. It ran down the back of Mulder's neck like freezing fingers and raised gooseflesh along his arms. He turned up the collar of his coat, his arm at Scully's back, guiding her to the passenger door of their steel-gray rental Chrysler. Inside the car, she tried to catch her breath and ran one shaking hand through her damp hair while the other fumbled at the heating controls.

'What the hell is wrong with this? The engine is still warm but it's blowing freezing goddamned air.'

Mulder switched the dial back to full heat. 'I turned it down a little. Sorry,' he said. 'It'll warm up soon.'

She sighed and started fiddling with the air vents instead. 'I'd have brought different clothes if I'd known the weather was likely to be like this.'

'It's really not that cold. I guess it's just because we got a little wet out there. Are you sure you're okay?'

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the rest. 'Everything is fine,' she said with measured irritation. 'Look, would you back off a little? I'm not made of goddamned glass.'

Mulder stared at her for a second, stung. He hadn't realized that he'd been so stifling. He just wanted her to know that she didn't have to hide pain or discomfort from him, or feel that she had to put on an act. Perhaps it was partially for his own reassurance that her condition wasn't as bad as it really was, but he knew that he was allowing himself to be deluded far more than she was deluding herself.

Seconds ticked by in a strained and awkward silence while the rain tamped against the roof and windshield. Eventually, he tore his eyes from her to the washed out scenery beyond. He started the engine, put it into drive, and headed back to the field office so he could package the evidence for transport to the FBI's crime lab.

He also wanted to make a stop at the County Police Department, not only to arrange protection for Reverend Cork, but also in the hopes that they could get someone to take a look at the handwriting more quickly than the FBI could arrange.

They drove in silence for a while before she spoke. Her voice was quiet and uncertain, as though she had forgotten how to use it.

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I know you're worried about me. It's just that it feels sometimes as though you're giving me no space to breathe. I'm still able to work, so please let me.'

He sighed, and felt a touch embarrassed. He hadn't realized just how intense his concern had become and although he had been hurt, he decided that the best thing to do would be to change the subject and just pretend that it had never happened.

'Do you have any ideas yet for what those numbers could mean?'

'No, not really. They could be anything, although considering the nature of the Reverend's business, I would expect they're probably to do with a reference that the sender expected the Reverend to understand. Maybe they're hymn numbers, or a passage from the bible, something like that.'

'I guess we'll soon find out. We'd better get this to the lab first though.'


	3. Chapter 3

Apologies again for the slow updates...I've been working on updates for an original novel that I've had sitting around for some time now that I'm trying to get onto kindle publishing. I'm my own worst critic, and I've rewritten it now so much, I'm driving myself crazy, so I've come back to good old Mulder and Scully, who were always so much easier to write! Anywho, as an apology, particularly to those who've taken the time to review (which I appreciate more than I could ever say), I'm posting two chapters this time. Hopefully they'll be worth the wait! :-)

* * *

**BRIGHTON POLICE DEPARTMENT**

**BRIGHTON,**

**TENNESSEE**

**OCTOBER 19****TH****, 1997**

**14:40PM**

'It's real difficult to try and work anything out from a photocopy, Agent Mulder,' said Bill Vickers, a Bureau graphologist who had travelled up from Memphis to meet them. 'The weight of the pen strokes is damn near impossible to see.'

He was a wiry man whose scurried yet oddly graceful movements and mannerisms reminded Mulder of a spider. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose and his lank, steel gray hair was combed right back from his forehead.

'I understand, Agent Vickers, but any information you could give us would be helpful. Time is not on our side and we've had to send the original to the crime lab for fingerprint and DNA work.'

He chewed on the corner of his lip and raised one eyebrow as he returned his gaze to the letter. 'The handwriting is quite distinctive and could potentially tell you far more about the person than his name, address and criminal record, which is all you could get from fingerprints anyway.' He took a magnifying glass from his bag and hovered it over the paper. 'It was written by a right handed person, most likely male. Without the original I hesitate to make a definitive conclusion, but it would appear that these are fairly heavy pen strokes. I'd say this person is aggressive, or at least feels strongly about whoever this was sent to. See the long upward tail on the 'e'? That usually shows that the writer may be inclined to fantasize rather than see the reality of a situation. They could also show signs of obsession, for example with the occult, religion or even a person – like a stalker. It's quite subtle really, but definitely there.'

'Fantasies, obsessional…doesn't sound healthy. Any indications as to the potential for violence?' asked Scully.

'I wouldn't like to commit myself in court, but I would say that there is that possibility, yes. See the extreme right handed slant of some of the letters? Adolf Hitler wrote like this towards the end of his life. I'm assuming the negative aspects, of course, considering the circumstances. There will be positive aspects to this person, too. The words were written in a hurry, as if the writer couldn't communicate his thoughts quickly enough, indicating great passion about what he is saying. It can also show an organized mind, which could be worrying when considered with the aggressive strokes of the pen.' He removed his glasses and rubbed at the ridge they had left on his nose. 'Have you found out what the numbers mean?'

'Not yet,' she replied.

'Well, I would say that it's important that you work on that. There are indications that the writer may be prone to obsession, aggression and dedication to his cause. It's troubling. Can I ask if you have any suspects at the moment?'

'Perhaps. A little early to be sure,' said Mulder. 'Thank you very much for your time, Agent Vickers. Will you be available should we need to contact you again?'

'Certainly,' he said, 'I'll be in town for another day or so. Otherwise, feel free to give me a call on my cell. Good luck with the case.'

* * *

There didn't seem much else they could do until they got the report back from the crime lab, so they headed back to the motel after a rather unproductive afternoon spent doing background checks on Virgil Anderson. All they discovered was that he had left theological college in New York three years ago but had never worked in his chosen vocation, or any other vocation for that matter. His current whereabouts were unknown, as he had left his last known residence at a boarding house in Atlanta, Georgia almost eighteen months ago. He had been arrested and released with a caution for various offences including public drunkenness, vandalism of public property (which turned out to be almost exclusively churches), trespass and disorderly conduct, all of which had taken place within those eighteen months, but across various states and each time he had listed a different address, none of which actually existed.

In short, they had no idea where he was and no real way of tracing him.

Frustrated and tired, they got back to their motel, the Riverview Suites – which offered neither a river view nor suites – by early evening. They ate at a diner across the street, though Scully barely touched her salad. Mulder didn't want to antagonize her anymore, so he said nothing about her lack of appetite as he tried to conquer a steak, but it turned out that he wasn't as hungry as he thought either.

He wished Scully goodnight, then headed back to his room. He showered and got into bed but though he was aching and nauseous with fatigue, he had trouble falling asleep. His thoughts were lingering not only on the events of the previous few days but on Scully, too. She had been so quiet since their conversation with Reverend Cork and on the few occasions she had spoken, she had been sharp and abrupt. Mulder supposed that the Reverend had touched some raw nerves with her, but she clearly didn't want to talk about it and he had to respect that, no matter how much it disturbed him.

Eventually he did fall asleep, but it was a restless relief haunted by nightmares. He was standing at the edge of a pit of quick-sand, Scully was drowning in the center, struggling to keep her head above the sand that pulled at her legs like a hungry animal. Every time he tried to reach over to help her, the pit got wider and she was sucked further and further away from him. Yet her expression belied her plight. She was so calm, even smiling, just allowing herself to fall. As she disappeared below the sands another figure appeared in the area just beyond. As it drew closer he could see that it was the Cancer Man, his smile as cold as the wind that had begun to whip around the surface of the pit. Mulder screamed as he fell to his knees and begged him to help her, even though he knew it was already too late. In desperate anger Mulder pulled out his gun and began firing at him, hoping to salve his pain by inflicting it back upon Cancer Man a thousand fold, but every shot missed and rebounded on Scully, who had not been lost to the pit after all, but was standing beside the man, clutching his hand. Each round struck her and burst like a red flower against her ice-white blouse as she fell to the ground, her blood staining the sand. Mulder screamed, oblivious now to the Cancer Man as he turned the gun on himself, unable to bear the grief any more…

* * *

He awoke in a bath of sweat, as breathless as though he had been running for miles. The sheets had bound themselves around his legs, increasing his frustration and desperation to feel the cool bite of the air conditioning upon his skin. When he succeeded in throwing them off, he headed straight for the bathroom and stood beneath the shower for as long as it took for him to feel human again.

He had never ached for Scully's pain more than he did then, and the memory of her face and the way she had looked at him in that dream clawed at his insides like a rabid animal. It was all the more bitter now, to wake and realize that the nightmares were real and that there would never be relief when he opened his eyes again.

_She was dying. He was going to lose her. And it was his fault._

He slid down onto his knees and allowed the water to absorb the tears that wracked him as he clung onto the edge of the bath as though it was the only thing keeping him from descent into an even darker place that would see him doing exactly as he had in his dream.

He emerged from the shower just after 3.00am, sleep way beyond him now. He tried turning on the TV, but there was very little worth watching except for the infomercials, and even they drove him crazy after a while. He figured that the best thing he could do was to get dressed and go for a drive. The motion of the car and early morning radio was almost guaranteed to make even the most determined of insomniacs yearn for the comfort of bed, and it was the only place he could be sometimes when the thoughts, memories and the lingering pain they left behind would be muted, just for a while.

When he stepped outside he drank in the cool, clear air with the verve of a man who had just escaped drowning. He looked up at the stars overhead and instantly felt both humbled by their permanence and awed by their beauty…and very grateful that he was still alive to enjoy them. He had often stared at the stars as a child when sleep didn't come easily or he was troubled, but they had failed to have that same effect since Scully's diagnosis. Instead they seemed cold and indifferent; distant and so vast in the vault of black sky drowning them that they seemed to be little more than a celestial model of the isolation and futility he felt, and sometimes the grief became too much when he considered how insignificant her life must be to the universe when she was the only thing that made it real for him.

He sighed as his gaze turned to more earthly concerns and he pulled the keys from his pocket. Only then did he notice the thin slant of light leaking from beneath Scully's door onto the wooden veranda outside. He moved closer to the door, convinced that she had merely left the light on by mistake, but he could hear the muffled tones of the TV too. Trying not to think of himself too much as a peeping tom, he risked a glance through the window and, through the partially open drapes, he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed. She was bent over, her hand covering her face. He wasn't sure whether she was upset or ill, so he waited until he saw her move. She stayed like that for a few moments until eventually she sat up straight and threw the bloodstained tissue she had been holding to her nose into the bin. He tried to tell himself that she was alright and that she didn't need his help…but he knew that she did, no matter what she had said earlier on. _She _always called _him. _She needed company, she needed to know that she wasn't alone in dealing with this; she needed someone who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.

Gently, he tapped the door.

'Who is it?' she called quietly. She sounded close, probably standing behind the door. There was no peephole, and if her room was the same as his, no chain either.

'It's me, Dana.'

There was a click as she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. She wore simple, peach silk pajamas with a white toweling bathrobe. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and dark traces of blood still stained the creases either side of her nose. She looked so very tired, but it wasn't a weariness that could be slept away.

'Do you have any idea what time it is? Go back to bed,' she said and began to close the door. He stopped it with his hand. She sighed in acquiescence. 'What do you want?'

'I couldn't sleep. I came out here for some fresh air and I saw the light. I wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't mean to make you feel weak or worthless. You're far from both.'

'Oh, Mulder, you didn't.' She sagged back against the doorframe and closed her eyes. 'I didn't mean to snap at you either, but you've got to understand that I'm all over the place right now.'

'I know that, and I do understand. I've been so worried about you, and I'm trying to deal with this the best way I know how, but I don't think I'm doing too well. I want to be there for you because I know you need someone right now, but sometimes I just don't know what to say or do to make things better. I wish I did.'

She met his eyes and a ghost of a smile haunted her lips. 'Maybe that's part of the problem, you know. You don't have to make things better. You can't. But you can make them more bearable just by being normal, forgetting that this thing is going on, you know? That's all I need…just for things to be the way that they always were.'

He nodded because he couldn't do anything else as the burn of tears closed off his throat.

'Come on,' she said, standing aside for him to move past her. 'I'll make you some coffee.' She went back to her rumpled bed to tidy up the papers, magazines and files strewn all over it. 'Excuse the mess. I've just been looking at some…other cases.' Though she was doing her best to hide them from him, he couldn't help but notice the articles that dealt mostly with alternative therapies, herbal drugs, and faith healing.

The ache he had felt when he had awoken from the nightmare returned with a vengeance, sucking away his will and his breath. He slumped down on the chair in front of the vanity mirror.

'Dana, you don't have to hide those from me.'

She flushed as though she had been caught doing something illegal. There was nothing for her to feel embarrassed about, but he knew that she was usually such a level-headed and rational person that it took a lot for her to even consider looking for help in the most extreme of places. 'I know that,' she murmured. 'I just…I guess I didn't want you to tease me about them…or think that I'm a hypocrite.'

Now it was his turn to flush, he could feel the heat rising through his face. 'I wouldn't do that. And I would never think that about you. It's just that I'm not sure that this kind of thing is helpful.'

She dodged his eyes as she stepped past him to put the papers on the table. 'I think that's up to me to decide, isn't it? I don't expect you to understand.'

'I'd like to try. Please…give me a chance.'

'You really want to know?'

'Of course I do. I'd like that coffee first though, if it's still on offer.'

She smiled and shook her head, but she was nonetheless grateful to have something to do. 'Sure.' For the next few moments she busied herself with the kettle and the complimentary packets of coffee while he took a brief look through the magazines, case files, newspapers and photocopied pages of books she had brought with her.

'They're really not that off-the-wall, Mulder. Not when you read them properly. There are a number of documented cases in there that make for some pretty compulsive reading. There are medical records, doctors' statements, reports, all of them state that there have been cases where people have been diagnosed with severe, chronic or even terminal illnesses. Some attended faith healing missions like Reverend Cork's while others attended personal one-to-one sessions. Almost ninety per cent of those cases resulted in improvements, remission and even total eradication of the disease. I know you said that you would question the original diagnoses, but there are statements from doctors here, x-rays, scans that all confirm.'

'I want to believe this, Dana, really I do, but what you also have to bear in mind is that there are also cases where spontaneous remission has occurred where there has been no intervention by faith healers or evangelists. Furthermore, all of the people were being treated with conventional medicine as well as the alternative therapies so it would be next to impossible to prove which course of treatment had any success.'

She had been excited as she had explained her theories to him, more enthusiastic than he'd seen her in months, but now there was a tired sort of light that had leaked into her eyes, dampening the edge from her smile. He hated being the one to bring a touch of reality into her thoughts and now he wished that he'd kept his opinions to himself. Surely some hope, even false, was better than none at all. Besides, who was to say that she wasn't right?

'I know what you're trying to do and I know that you have my best interests at heart, but sometimes it would be great if you could just…I don't know…maybe forget about honesty for a couple of minutes to see things from my perspective. If there's a possibility that any one of these could work for me, then I'd like to try. I'm not asking for you to agree with it. I guess I'd just like a little less nay-saying when this is the only thing that's allowed me to get some sleep in weeks.'

'I'm sorry. You're right. Look, whatever you want to try, I'll be there for you, you know that. I'm just a little worried that you may be pinning all your hopes on whatever you think Reverend Cork can do for you. You've been up and down so much lately and I'm concerned that if you don't find what you're looking for, you'll hit a new low that you really don't need to be feeling now.'

'But you have to try and accept that I'm capable of making my own decisions, and these are _my_ risks to be taking.' She stopped and sighed when she realized that impatience was beginning to creep into her tone again. She closed her eyes and turned her face towards the window. 'I had another nosebleed tonight. A pretty bad one. I didn't want to tell you, you worry way too much already.' Her voice was cracking, but still she fought the urge to cry. 'The last time I went to the hospital they told me the tumor had metastasized and aside from treating the pain, there's not much more they can do for me. I'm…dying and…I'm frightened, Mulder. I have to have something to hang onto…don't you understand that?'

The impact of this announcement couldn't have had more impact had it been a freight train. His stomach tightened as he fought the nausea that was forcing its way into his consciousness. His eyes welled and a tear broke loose, hot acid burning its way down his cheek at hearing the words he had known she would speak sooner or later, but words he kept hoping would never come. He had so many emotions tearing through him that they were shorting each other out, leaving him just…numb. He moved closer to her to put his arms around her because it was the only thing that felt right and for a long while he just held her. He felt so inadequate, all he could do as she tucked her head closer to his chest was gently stroke her hair.

'It's okay, Dana, it's okay. You're not facing this alone.'

Eventually, she pulled away and looked at him through bloodshot, tired eyes. 'Thank you,' she smiled.

'No problem,' he replied, wiping a tear from her cheek. 'Feel better?'

'Mm-mm,' she nodded, not too convincingly. She sighed deeply then pulled herself up, adjusted her pillows and brought back some of the magazines she'd been reading and passed them to him. 'How about you help me get through these? I'm looking for anything that might give me…well, you know.'

He smiled as he took them from her. 'Sure.'

They worked in silence for a while before tiredness began to overwhelm him and he just couldn't look at the print anymore. He took off his glasses and glanced across to see her completely engrossed in the reports. The lamp-light cast shadows across her face and played with the shifting colors in her hair as she moved. Her eyebrows arched and she exhaled sharply, she must have read something that troubled her or that she disagreed with. He'd been on the receiving end of that face more times than he could remember as she had tried, very unsuccessfully, to hide her contempt at one of his theories on a case. She had more or less raised a disapproving eyebrow at him through the past few years, but that had always been okay with him. She kept him sane, rational; made him adhere to protocols at times when he would have liked nothing more than to put a bullet in a guy's head when he knew that the justice system would ensure that all their hard work would come to nothing. She understood the frustration, but she had always been the one with the most patience.

The longer he sat there looking at her with her confession still twisting around in his gut, a name for the feelings he knew he'd had for her for a long time now began to form somewhere in the back of his mind. The thought of losing her, of being without her guiding, comforting, grounding presence in his life was a nightmare that he couldn't even begin to contemplate.

He needed to change the subject. He wasn't ready or willing to allow such thoughts to begin creeping into his mind. 'Did you have any more thoughts about the numbers on that card that was sent to Reverend Cork?'

She put down the magazines and pinched the bridge of her nose. Tiredness was gradually winning her over, too. 'Yes, actually. I was pretty convinced that there were religious overtones in the message, so I decided to check the bible.' She leaned over to retrieve her pocketbook from the side of the bed. Opening it, she pulled out a white leather bible, inlaid with gold writing, which had several pieces of paper acting as bookmarks.

'That doesn't look like your usual gift from the Gideons. Is it yours?'

She nodded. 'My parents gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday. I don't usually carry it around with me, but I've been wanting to read it lately and… Anyway, the pages I've marked are the verses which I thought the sender may have been referring to.'

She handed the book to him and as he ran his fingers over the soft, pitted leather, he read the inscription on the first page.

_To our precious Dana, Happy 21st Birthday, all our love always, Mom and Dad_.

He wondered how she felt every time she opened it and saw those words. Probably the same way he felt when he had the courage to open his photo albums and see his parents and his sister looking back at him like parts of a life that belonged to someone else in another time.

He turned to the first bookmark, in Isaiah, chapter thirteen, verse six. 'I take it the 'forward slash thirteen' means to read to verse thirteen?'

'Yes, I think so. I first thought the numbers might refer to a page, but that wouldn't work when there are so many different versions of the Bible. So I decided to try book numbers. I separated each number, so the first number would represent book two, chapter thirty-one; verse thirty-six, but there is no verse thirty-six. Eventually I got to the verse you're reading, which makes sense when you consider it in relation to the picture on the card.'

'"_Wail, for the day of the Lord is near… Terror will seize them, pain and anguish will grip them…the day of the Lord is coming – a cruel day, with wrath and fierce anger to make the land desolate and destroy the sinners…_"

'Nice stuff, huh?'

'But why would he want the reader to stop at verse thirteen? The rest of the passage seems appropriate too.'

Scully shrugged. 'It's chapter thirteen, ending at verse thirteen, considered by more superstitious people to be unlucky. Maybe that has something to do with it.'

'You don't believe that,' he said, smiling as he looked over at her. 'Maybe it doesn't have any significance. I suppose the rest of the chapter leads on to captured lands and murdering children – perhaps not totally relevant to the point.'

'If this _is_ Anderson, maybe he sees himself as some kind of angel, justly sorting the good from the evil. I don't like the '_I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty_' part. We told the Reverend there wasn't anything threatening, but that certainly doesn't sound too friendly. Read the second passage.'

'Book of Matthew, chapter seven, verses fifteen to seventeen? Mmm… '_Watch out for false prophets…By their fruit you will recognize them_…' This ties in to what Anderson shouted in the meeting. Reverend Cork seems to have a high success record though. Is the sender implying that if someone were to take a closer look, these 'miracles' may not be so miraculous after all? He must be convinced that the Reverend is a fraud.' He handed the book back to Scully.

'Or _she_,' she pointed out, holding onto it and affectionately running her thumb over the lettering. 'I wonder why the sender didn't just quote the whole passages. Why the numbers?'

'Maybe he or she enjoys the game. Maybe they were lazy and couldn't be bothered, or maybe it just wouldn't fit on the postcard. Or maybe they just wanted to get the Reverend to actually open his bible rather than just brandish it about like a crucifix at a vampire party.'

She laughed softly, lighting up her eyes and soothing his soul. He wondered what it was about her smile that affected him so deeply. Maybe it was because she showed it so rarely. Particularly lately.

She leaned back into the pillows and stifled a yawn with slender fingers. 'You want another coffee?'

'Maybe the coffee isn't helping, you know,' he teased. 'No, thanks. I'd better be going anyway. I'll have to try and get some sleep sometime.'

He pulled himself up, stretched, and headed for the door. She followed him over and as he opened the door, she stopped him with a touch on his arm.

'Thank you,' she said.

'What for?'

'For listening. Supporting. Understanding. Being there. I appreciate it more than you can know.'

He brought his hand to her face and tenderly caressed her cheek. 'You'll be okay?'

'Uh-huh,' she nodded, giving him another soft smile. 'Goodnight, Mulder.'


	4. Chapter 4

**KENWOOD MOTEL**

**KENWOOD**

**TENNESSEE**

**OCTOBER 20****TH**** 1997**

**7.59am**

The Reverend's motel was just outside the town on a lonely stretch of road just off the 374. It was still dark, the thick mercury clouds overhead trying their best to drown the sunlight leaking through the trees. Early morning mist clung stubbornly around the motel, making it appear as though it were floating against the trees, their bare branches scratching at its roof like old fingers.

Their car splashed through puddles left in the gravel car park as they pulled in outside the lobby with its over-reaching awning that afforded at least some protection from the elements for those who ventured to stay here. The motel itself looked old but was well cared for with homely touches of potted palms in the lobby and flowers in the windows. A diner advertising that it was open to non-residents stood to the left of the entrance and a neon-pink sign advertised the vacancies that were already obvious from the lack of cars out front. A police cruiser, most likely belonging to the Reverend's guard, was the only other vehicle there.

Inside the lobby sat a middle-aged brunette wearing a little too much make-up who smiled warmly at them over the polished mahogany desk and informed them that the Reverend was staying on the second floor in room 27.

Unfortunately, the FBI wouldn't officially recognize jurisdiction for the Reverend's complaint. Though they had been contacted privately by the Reverend, they were informed by the Memphis field office that a watch would not be a reasonable use of time and resources as no crime had actually been committed and there was nothing to indicate malicious or violent intent within the note. A heated exchange had taken place over the matter the previous afternoon between Mulder and the SAIC of the field office but to no avail. They told him that the Bureau was already overstretched and until a direct threat to the Reverend could be proved, they suggested that the local police provide cover. Despite his protestations, the guard had eventually been provided by Detectives Callahan and Pryce of the Kenwood police department.

As the lift doors opened on the deep burgundy corridor, the younger of the two men came towards them.

'Good morning, I'm Detective Elliot Callahan. You must be Agents Mulder and Scully.'

'Good to meet you,' said Mulder, shaking his hand. 'Is the Reverend awake?'

'No, sir. He stayed up until late last night, didn't have dinner 'till almost 8.30,' replied Callahan as they walked back up towards the Reverend's room.

He was young, slim and about two inches taller than Mulder, who already towered over Scully. He also had the sharpest, bluest eyes they'd ever seen, like ancient ice sheets. His partner was something of a contrast. He had wiry blonde hair and dull green eyes set into a lined face that gave the impression of a hard life lived. His greeting had none of the openness and warmth that Callahan's did, but he nonetheless shook hands confidently with both the agents.

'Didn't he go down for breakfast, order room service, anything like that?' asked Scully.

'Not that I know of. Unless he telephoned down this morning and it hasn't arrived yet,' replied Pryce.

'He didn't go down for dinner?'

'No, Agent Scully. The Reverend was tired, didn't want to be bothered with dressing and eating three courses, being polite to waiters, you know,' said Callahan.

'I guess I can understand that,' said Mulder as he tapped gently on the door. When no reply was forthcoming, he knocked again. 'Reverend Cork? It's Agents Mulder and Scully. Could we have a minute of your time please, sir?'

The lack of response halted the quiet conversation between Callahan and Scully as Mulder knocked again.

Still no answer.

It was as though someone had placed an icy hand right between his shoulders. The back of his neck bristled and he felt his pulse quicken. 'Do you have a key?' he asked.

'Yes, of course,' replied Pryce. He took the keycard from his pocket and slipped it into the slot in the lock. Mulder signalled to the two officers to back off as Scully followed her partner inside the room. It was dark and silent, the curtains still drawn.

'Reverend Cork?' Scully was answered only by silence. She quickly scanned the room, the light filtering in from the corridor providing the dim illumination. Only the silhouettes of the nightstand, the lamp, a chair in the corner and the rumpled sheets of the unmade bed could be seen.

'Mulder,' said Scully, placing her hand on his arm to bring his attention to the bed. As their eyes became accustomed to the poor light, Reverend Cork could be seen lying silently under the covers.

Mulder impatiently ran his hand around the door. 'Where's the damn light switch?'

He found it, and for a few seconds they were both blinded.

'Oh, God,' Scully breathed. Reverend Cork's pallor and blank expression conveyed everything she needed to know. She walked over to him to check for a pulse. 'He's dead, Mulder.'

'Goddammit,' he sighed. 'Looks like he passed away in his sleep, but under the circumstances, I guess that's unlikely. No signs of violence or blood in here.'

'No, but I think we both know better than to judge things on face value.' She carefully folded back the sheet to avoid damaging any possible trace evidence and looked over the body for anything that may suggest that the Reverend died from something other than natural causes.

'Is he alright?' Callahan asked from the doorway.

'I'm afraid it looks as though the Reverend passed away during the night,' said Scully. 'Could either you or Officer Pryce please contact the coroner and arrange for this room to be treated as a crime scene, at least until we have established the cause of death?'

'Is that really necessary?' asked Pryce. 'We've been right outside all night.'

'Yes, it's necessary,' said Mulder. 'This man was receiving threatening mail. I find a sudden death in these circumstances suspicious. This needs to be treated as a crime scene until cause of death is established. With respect, it is not a subject for debate.'

'Alright, alright,' he said, holding up his hands. 'Just as long as you're happy to complete the paperwork.'

'I live for it,' replied Mulder with a wry smile.

Pryce lodged no further protestations as he left, swiftly followed by his partner, the chattering over their police radio fading away.

'Congratulations, Mulder. I do believe you've just succeeded in alienating the local law enforcement,' said Scully.

'Oh, I do hope so.'

She turned back to the bed. The Reverend looked so peaceful, thought Scully, the lines on his face softened by death, his skin so pale. Death must have come swiftly, and for that Scully was grateful. She had liked the Reverend, even though she had only spoken to him briefly. The spark, the light in his eyes that had been apparent yesterday was gone, that special part that had made the Reverend who he was, moved on. Words that her father had once spoken now rang truer than ever.

_We are all more than the sum of our parts, Dana_.

She didn't know where he'd heard that, but those words had brought her infinite comfort in the days, weeks and months following her father's death. The thought that there was something indefinable that made us more than what we are, something that could transcend death, something that would continue to exist somewhere out there in the universe was soothing to her, and it didn't matter whether that came from spirituality or religion. Something made us who we are, defined whether we became leaders or killers. Was that a soul? She didn't know, but for the first time in her life, she found herself not wantingto believe, but needingto.

She had seen so many good people taken from loving families through the years, but none had affected her as deeply as this death. Perhaps because a heart attack had taken her father; she almost saw him lying here instead of the Reverend, and the memory of those dark days, and the intense grief she suddenly felt again, brought tears to her eyes.

Mulder noticed Scully's hesitation, and saw the pain in her face. 'Scully, why don't you take some time back at the motel? There's nothing more you can do anyway for now. I can handle things here.'

Normally his fussing would have been unwelcome, but she was tired, had a growing headache and didn't want to start that same old fight again.

'I appreciate your concern, but I'd rather stay. It's just…he reminds me a little of my father. Really, I'll be alright.'

Mulder was about to reply when Callahan pushed open the door. Pryce continued his conversation outside over the radio, then followed him in.

'The coroner and the SOC team are on their way, Agent Mulder. There was only one other guest on this floor, but he left earlier today. They've got his name and address in reception if you wanted to speak to him.'

'Thanks,' said Mulder, pulling the sheet back over the Reverend. 'Agent Scully and I will be accompanying the body to the coroner's office. We'll be sure to let you know the outcome of the autopsy.'

'Forgive me for pointing this out, but this is not your case, Agent Mulder. The bureau has no jurisdiction here,' said Pryce. 'We are capable of handling this locally.'

'John, if the bureau wants to complete the paperwork on this one, it's their call. We got enough on our plates right now,' said Callahan.

He shrugged. 'Fine. It's all yours. You can have the headaches.'

'I know Doctor Khan, the coroner,' said Callahan. 'He's a good man. I'll give him a call and ask him to put a rush on. We can also deal with notifying next of kin, if you wanted.'

'Sure, that would be helpful. Thank you,' said Scully. 'Though I would prefer to complete the examination myself, if I could. I am a fully qualified doctor.'

'Oh, okay. Well, I'll mention that. I'm sure he won't have any objections.'

'Great.'

'Well, I guess there's not much more we can do here for the moment, so we'll get out of your way,' said Callahan. 'We'll be outside if you need us.'

Mulder shook his hand. 'No problem. Thanks for your help.'

Pryce just rolled his eyes and left without another word.


	5. Chapter 5

**OFFICES OF THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER**

**BASEMENT LEVEL - MORGUE**

**KENWOOD **

**14.30PM**

After getting himself a too strong, too sweet coffee from the too old vending machine, Mulder sat on a hard plastic chair, flicked through some old magazines, and completed a few crossword competitions that had expired while he was still in high school as he waited for the results of the autopsy. Mulder hated being present for them and avoided them wherever he could, especially when he had spoken to the victim just a few hours ago.

Inside the sterile autopsy suite, Scully pulled on a pair of thick latex gloves, green surgical gown, hat and booties. The room was cold and silent aside from the slow drip of a leaking tap in the sink. White tiles covered the walls and floor, all around were stainless steel workbenches and the focal point, if you could call it that, in the center of the room was the huge steel autopsy table. How many peoples' lives had ended with a journey to this table, Scully wondered. The table so often drew sideways glances from visitors as they formed mental images of the bodies they sometimes held. Whatever people might imagine, no-one could really know the horrors that were uncovered here, the remains of the evil things that human beings are capable of doing to each other. Now, the table held Reverend Cork, his body a mountain landscape draped in the snow white sheet. The mortuary assistants had already removed the body from its thick plastic bag and had performed the X-rays that now hung from the light box on the wall. Scully checked all the necessary medical equipment was on hand; she snapped a new blade onto the scalpel, checked the Stryker saw, retractors. She opened her notebook and sketch pad ready for her shorthand notes which she always took in case the recorder failed. She sighed, collected her thoughts, then pulled back the sheet and switched on her hand-held tape recorder. She took the body's internal and external temperate, then broke the rigor in the arms and legs. She carefully examined every inch of him checking for any bruising, lacerations, abrasions, and marks that could indicate the manner of death, all the while sketching the body and recording her findings. There was some bruising along the right side of his neck, but it was only just becoming visible, possibly a pressure mark sustained as a result of a ligature, although it seemed too thick for that - maybe a hand mark? Reverend Cork had been a tall, well-built man and it was quite an effort to turn him over, especially as rigor was well-established. Scully was rewarded with a small puncture mark on the back of his neck, encircled by another bruise just below the hairline. It looked like a needle mark, but Scully couldn't be sure until the full post-mortem was finished and a full tox screen was performed. For the next hour or so after turning the body back over, she collected tissue and blood samples, weighed and measured organs and finally closed the 'y' incision.

Relieved to have completed this difficult autopsy, she took off her gloves and spent a few minutes scrubbing her hands trying to rid them of the smell of latex. After informing the attendants that she had finished, she collected her notes, tape and sketches and went to put Mulder out of his misery. He had finally given up with the magazines, and having taken off his raincoat and suit jacket, was standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets, staring out the window at the cold and miserable April day. He turned as he heard her footsteps coming down the hall.

'I was beginning to wonder what happened to you, feels like I've been here for hours. If you ever see me looking at a crossword again please kill me quickly.'

'It did take a little longer than I'd anticipated, but that's because I found something I didn't expect, I wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything.' She pushed a hand tiredly through her disheveled hair.

'Like what?'

'I found a tiny mark at the top of his neck just here,' she demonstrated on her own neck, 'and another on the right side. The back one looked like a needle mark to me, but I can't be positive anything was actually administered until the tox reports come back, and that won't be for a day or two.'

'What about the side one?'

'I'm not sure. I don't think it was a ligature, the patterning wasn't right. Possibly it could be a pressure mark, if the Reverend was grabbed from behind and held while the injection was given. It wasn't anywhere near severe enough to caused death, it was barely visible. Unless the Reverend injured himself before.' Mulder raised an eyebrow in disbelief as Scully continued. 'I don't think so either. One thing is sure though, the Reverend didn't stab himself in the back of the neck, so there's definitely something not right about his death. There were no bruises, abrasions, nothing apart from a small shaving cut under the chin. However, I did find scarring in the cardiac tissue and atheroma in the coronary and pulmonary arteries, as well as in other areas of the body. There was some narrowing of the bronchioles, so it looks as though the Reverend used to be a smoker too. That combined with the fact that he was slightly overweight doesn't make me surprised that he had heart problems, the actual cause of death was a myocardial infarction.'

'You think it could have been induced by whatever was injected?'

'I can't confirm that,' she replied, always the diplomat, 'and I'm not putting that in my report until I get the lab results back but just between you and me, its possible. Even when I do get them, it's not going to look good for a prosecution case because it's almost impossible to prove that the heart attack was brought on by something else, especially when there is such a strong history of cardiac problems.'

Mulder slumped down into a chair and rubbed at the bridge of his nose as though he could feel a headache coming on. Scully pushed aside the magazines on the coffee table and sat on the edge facing him.

'Maybe we could start looking for someone who had the opportunity to administer that injection. With Officers Callahan and Pryce outside the room, I can't see how anyone could have gained access.'

'I'm just thinking aloud now… It was recently done, I mean he would probably have mentioned it if someone had stuck him with a needle, so it must have happened last night. What I'm thinking is that whoever it was, it must be someone the Reverend knew and trusted, because if you feel in danger, you wouldn't turn your back. Unless, of course, they've got a gun on you. But then, how the hell did they get in the room in the first place with two police officers standing outside?' He sighed and leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, as if the answer would magically appear if he looked long enough. They both sat in silence for a few seconds before Scully patted him on the knee and stood.

'Come on. It's pointless just sitting here and I'm starving. How about I buy you something to eat, then we can see how the SOCO's got on.'

'Sounds good to me.'

* * *

After returning from an early dinner, Mulder and Scully waited patiently for a further two hours. Eventually, just after 8:00pm, the initial toxicology reports came in. She read them while Mulder brought two coffees from the vending machine.

'I was right, Mulder. They found very high concentrations of morphine in the blood, as well as traces of the medication he was taking for his hypertension. The drugs he was prescribed have to be taken with food, so the Reverend must have taken them with the steak he ate. That's consistent with stomach contents and rate of absorption of the medication, putting time of death at around nine to ten o'clock. The tissue sample I took showed that the syringe entered the neck at a slight incline upwards, suggesting that the assailant was shorter than the victim, but as the Reverend was so tall, that doesn't exactly narrow it down. Thanks,' she said, looking over her glasses to accept the coffee that Mulder handed to her.

'There was slight subcutaneous hemorrhaging, which shows a degree of violence, as if the syringe was stabbed in. The bruising around the puncture mark I told you about would be consistent with the base of a hypodermic, too.'

Mulder set his coffee on the floor under his chair as Scully handed him the manila file.

'You recorded the time of death as about nine thirty. Callahan and Pryce were there from five when the Reverend arrived back, and no-one was recorded as entering or leaving the room after that time, so how could anyone have got in there?'

'Well, it's too high up to get at from the ground, even with a ladder because the flower beds around the hotel would have marks, not to mention the fact that someone walking around with a huge ladder would kind of stick out. There are no balconies. What about room service? Maids?'

'I don't know. There haven't been any formal statements from the officers yet. We'd better head over to the hotel, let the officer in charge know what's going on and have a look around. We can get statements tomorrow, unless they're there now.'

'It's late, Mulder. They've probably gone home.'

'Well, only one way to find out.'

* * *

It had started to rain again. Water ran down the car windows making the scenery look like a washed-out watercolor. The rain formed deep pools of quicksilver in the headlights that sprayed up around the car as Mulder drove through them. Clouds hung low and heavy in the sky, and grew steadily darker as the waning light leached the last of the color from the land. The rhythmic thump-thump of the windscreen wipers, the drumming of the rain on the roof and the ever present spray from the car in front was making Mulder wish he'd tried harder to get some sleep last night. His eyelids felt as though they were weighted down and he had to fight to stay awake. He glanced sideways at his partner, noticing how thin she was becoming and how the light no longer seemed to touch her hair as it used to. She looked so small, so weak…so mortal. He silently vowed that from now on he would treasure every moment with her as though it may be his last, to savor every precious second for however long she had left. For the millionth time since she'd told him, he asked himself if his fight for the truth was worth the price other people were paying for him. His feelings towards his partner were changing, deepening. Maybe they had been for some time, but only now when he was faced with losing her was he beginning to acknowledge them. He hadn't realized how much he needed her, depended on her, how much she meant to him. He was falling again, the pit pulling him down with the force of a black hole. He reached for the radio, hoping there would be something on there to distract him. Scully looked over disapprovingly.

'Do you have to have this on?' she complained over the intrusive noise of Will Smith's laughably appropriate _Men in Black_.

'Sorry,' he said, smiling, knowing this was one of the moments that he would miss most when… He turned it down. 'That better?'

'Much, thank you.'

They drove for a few moments longer while Mulder forced himself to think about the case at present and not the future as the windshield wipers and tapping rain continued their gentle rhythm.

'Scully, I've been thinking, what were the levels of morphine in the blood? Were they excessive?'

She looked over to him, 'Yes, actually they were high enough to have killed him three times over. Why?'

'Overkill, then?'

'Maybe, but it's more likely that the murderer just didn't know what he was doing and administered however much he could get hold of.'

'Could the Reverend have had a heart attack brought on by the shock of the injection itself, or the shock of just being attacked? Could you prove that?'

'Not really. That would be impossible, actually. All I can tell you is the morphine was present in sufficient quantity to kill. Given the Reverend's already weakened state, either shock or the morphine are both as likely to have killed him.'

'Whoever did this, they couldn't have known about the Reverend's heart condition, otherwise they would have realized that half a dose would have been sufficient. There are far easier ways of inducing someone to have a heart attack.'

Scully took a deep breath, absorbing what Mulder was saying. 'I don't think there is any need to be that accurate. If you want someone dead you wouldn't fuss around with exact quantities. I would think though that a certain amount of research would have gone into it.'

'Or maybe there was just such anger behind the act. I mean the evidence of violence. The bruising on the neck, where the hypodermic entered, the huge volume of morphine used. If it is the same person who sent the note, then this murder was well planned and executed, there seems to be a certain amount of passion behind it. The method chosen too was silent and clean, showing a desire for self-preservation after the fact.'

'I don't know, Mulder. But then I guess that's why I'm the doctor and you're the profiler.'

'I do believe that was a vote of confidence.'

'Do you?' she smiled mischievously. 'Anyway, it's more likely the murderer just didn't know what he was doing. You'd have to know at least a little about pathology to know exact amounts. Why go to the trouble? Why not just administer however much you can get hold of?'

'Because you'd be running the risk that it might not be enough. You'd have to do at least some research and in doing so you'd find out about overdoses, contra-indications, that kind of thing. You'd know that the level of morphine used would be way too much.' He flicked on the indicator as they arrived back at the hotel. The solitary cruiser still was still parked out front. He pulled in as close to the door as he could and said, 'You jump out here.'

'Why? Where you going?'

'I'm just going to park up.'

She eyed him suspiciously before jumping out and sprinting into the lobby. Smiling at the receptionist, she shook the rain from her coat. Mulder wasn't too long, but he was drenched when he arrived.

'Where the hell have you been?'

'Checking for footprints outside the Reverend's window. There weren't any after all.'

'And you had to choose the middle of a cloudburst to check that?'

'We needed to know, and now seemed as good a time as any.'

She shook her head in disbelief at yet another of Mulder's eccentricities and watched with amusement as he tried to squeeze the water from his hair and coat.

'Are you done?' she asked.

'Let's just get this over with so I can have a hot shower,' he said, pushing past her while she tried to stifle a giggle.

Surprisingly, Callahan was still outside the room reading a newspaper. He folded it and put it on the floor under his chair as he stood to greet the agents.

'Officer Callahan,' smiled Scully. 'You working a double shift?'

'Well, Agent Scully, got no-one to go home to, and besides, I could use the overtime. So what were the results of the autopsy?'

'Reverend Cork died of a heart attack, although that may have been precipitated by an injection of morphine. Do you know if the SOCO's found anything?'

'No, not as far as I know. Haven't had the report yet though,' he muttered. 'Shit…how? How did anyone get in there? I take it he didn't inject himself.'

'Not unless he's got bionic arms, no,' said Mulder. 'We need to know exactly who came and went last night.'

'Only myself, Pryce...some room service guy...I think he said his name was Conner. That's it, I guess.'

'You're sure?'

'I am, yeah.'

'Has SOCO released the scene yet?'

'Not officially, but I think they're pretty much done in there.'

'Okay. Well, we're just going to have a quick look around.'

'Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out.'

Mulder entered first and flicked on the light switch. There was a heavy, pervasive atmosphere, and the low moonlight only served to accentuate the shadows, sadness and sense of ending. He sighed as he put his coat on the chair and began looking around the bed. Scully lingered a while in the doorway chatting to Callahan before following him in.

'You two are very friendly all of a sudden,' he said, picking up the valance to look under the bed.

'Well, one of us has to make an effort. I don't see you nurturing multi-jurisdictional relationships.'

'Oh, so that's what they're calling it these days.'

'Actually, if you must know, we were discussing work. He said he'd find out about that Conner guy, see when he's working next. Do you think it could be him?'

'I don't know, but there's only three people who were here last night. One of them must know something,' said Mulder.

He continued checking the floor around the bed, whilst Scully started in the bathroom.

'Hey, Scully,' he called after a while, 'look at this.'

She joined him at the side of the bed to examine the small bloodstain just larger than a pinhead formed on the bottom of the otherwise clean, crisp white pillow.

'Probably from the neck wound, it would have bled a little because of the angle it went in.'

'It must be, there were no other injuries and the bedding is changed every day. Besides the stain doesn't appear to be that old,' said Mulder.

'The killer must have placed the body on the bed after the attack.'

'That would make sense. If the police checked on the Reverend later that night, they would think he was sleeping and wouldn't disturb him. They must have known the body wouldn't be discovered until morning. It would have given him time. It would also look more like a natural death.'

'Probably,' said Scully returning to the bathroom while Mulder continued to check the bed.

'There's absolutely nothing here,' said Scully. 'Callahan would have mentioned it if they'd found a hypodermic in here. I guess I wouldn't really have expected the killer to have been stupid enough to have left it here anyway. There are no other signs of a struggle, no other bloodstains. The killer was clever, I'll give him that.'

'You know, there could have been other people who weren't reported. The maid who turned down the bed, for example. Or someone could have entered without the officers knowing. Maybe they slipped away for a minute, to get a coffee, use the bathroom, anything.'

'Well, actually, Agent Mulder, we didn't,' said Callahan, from the door. 'Just because we don't deal with this kind of case very often down here, it doesn't mean we take our responsibilities any less seriously. I worked hard to get this job. They don't just give badges out like goddamned candy.'

Mulder, somewhat taken aback with Callahan's unexpected appearance was lost for words.

'He didn't mean it that way. Sorry if he offended you, but we have to explore all possibilities, Officer Callahan. Agent Mulder wasn't criticizing.'

'Yeah, I'll bet. Goddamn feds,' muttered Callahan. 'You're all the same, think you're so much better than us country hicks, don't you? Well, just for the record, Reverend Cork came up here at around eight-thirty, he ordered room service, ate most of his meal, then went to bed. All that time either Pryce or I was outside and no-one either entered or left that room other than that room service guy, okay? It's not our problem if you guys can't explain what's happened here, it not being our _jurisdiction_,' he finished, the final word being spoken as if it left a sour taste in his mouth.

Mulder ignored him. He wasn't a stranger to the irritation caused when the FBI took control over cases for small towns. He knew from his own experience as a new recruit how it felt to have a case taken from you, like a mother taking a dangerous toy from a child who is too immature and ignorant to be able to use it, but he had moved on from that kind of infantile reaction and sometimes he forgot that other people might not have reached that plateau yet. He was more disappointed and annoyed with Scully for feeling as though she had to apologize for him.

'Did you find Conner?' she was asking.

'Actually, no. The manager, Mr. Sipowitz, told me there was no record of an employee with that name. All we know of this guy is that he was young, maybe early twenties, deep blonde hair, about five ten.'

'That sounds promising. How did he get the uniform and know that the Reverend had ordered room service?' asked Scully.

'We don't know yet, but Sipowitz is pretty upset about the whole thing. He's checking into it now. He should have the rota in a few minutes, he's bringing it up.'

'Well, it's a good place to start,' she said.

'Maybe, but we still have to explain how anyone could have gotten in here carrying a hypodermic,' said Mulder.

Callahan threw him another icy glare. 'Before you say it, we did search him and the tray he brought up. Needless to say we found a huge goddamn syringe up his sleeve but decided to let him in anyway.'

'Hey, jackass, why don't you take your moronic sarcasm and shove it up your goddamned - '

'Mulder, for God's sake,' Scully said in disgust, stepping between them. 'Just go down and get that list, see if anyone in the kitchens saw anything, and I'll meet you in the lobby in half an hour, alright?'

He stared at her, anger flashing in his eyes like she'd never seen before as he left, barely resisting the temptation to slam the door behind him.

* * *

Sipowitz's office was situated through a door at the back of the reservations desk. Mulder tapped gently before entering. 'Mr. Sipowitz?'

The older man rose from behind his desk. 'Ah, Agent Mulder, please come in.' He looked like a school principle in his dark pinstripe suit and bifocals perched on the end of his long, bird-like nose. A nervous smile played on his lips as he came toward Mulder with his hand outstretched. 'Would you like some coffee?'

'No, thank you. Have you got that list yet, sir?'

'Yes, it's just printing off for you.'

Mulder glanced around while he waited. The room was very sparsely furnished. Sipowitz sat in a creaking leather swivel chair behind the huge oak desk which was very cluttered, distracting attention from the wonderful ornate floral carvings on the legs. There were no pictures on the wall, no photographs of any family even though he wore a wedding band, but sitting on top of a small filing cabinet in the corner was a neglected spider plant.

'I'm very sorry about this, Agent Mulder. I can assure you that this hotel takes the security and privacy of its guests most seriously. I cannot imagine how anyone could have managed to get into the kitchens, let alone upstairs without being noticed.' He tore the list from the printer and handed it to Mulder.

'How many staff do you employ here?' he asked.

'Fifty-eight altogether, between kitchen and waiting staff, cleaners, security guards, receptionists, bar staff, groundskeepers, and so on.' He poured a coffee for himself from the machine on the windowsill and resumed his chair. 'That's the full list, but only a fraction handful of those were here last night. They have an asterisk by their name.'

'Would you say that most people here knew each other well?'

'Well, at least in passing, yes. Because of the shifts, I suppose it's impossible to know everyone really well, but faces should be familiar, I would think.'

'So how do you explain the fact that someone not on your payroll was able to get hold of a uniform, the room service request, and be able to get upstairs without anyone noticing?'

Sipowitz shifted awkwardly in his squeaking chair. 'I…I don't know. To be perfectly honest with you, there are spare uniforms kept in the staff changing room next to the kitchens, so that wouldn't have been too hard, I suppose. I can't explain how no-one noticed him in the kitchens though. He would have had to go in there to get the room-service requests which are kept pinned to a board next to the door. He must have been very quick. Plus they are supposed to wear hair protection nets and hats when in the kitchen, so his appearance may have been obscured somewhat, which could explain why no-one noticed him.'

'If I gave a description of this man to your staff, would they be able to identify him, do you think?'

'I'm sure they could,' he replied emphatically, glad to be able to do something positive to help. 'Those who were in last night would be on the morning shift tomorrow, and you're welcome to speak to them then.'

'Thank you, I will,' said Mulder, standing to leave. 'Will you be here tomorrow if we need to speak to you again?'

'I will, yes, but you can reach me anytime at this number,' he said, pulling a business card from a dispenser on his desk.

'Thanks,' replied Mulder.

'Can I just say how sorry I was to hear about what happened? I can't tell you how bad I feel about this lapse in security. The Reverend has stayed with us before, everyone liked him. He was such a nice man, such a terrible shame.'

'Yes, it was. We'll find out who did this, Mr. Sipowitz. Thank you again for your time.'

Mulder returned to the lobby and sat beneath the large parlor palm to wait for Scully. He glanced through the list of names, although he didn't really expect to find anything, they were all strangers to him. Sighing, he threw the list on the chair next to him and tilted his head back against the cold wall and closed his eyes.

The soft whirr of engines as the elevator was called upstairs drew his attention. After a few seconds, it returned with Scully and Callahan, who said goodnight to her then returned to his car without so much as a glance towards Mulder. She smiled as she approached him.

'That didn't take as long as we'd expected,' she said cheerfully. 'A preliminary report has been returned from the SOC team. They think they may have found a few fibers on the sheets and possibly a hair in the bathroom, so at least that's something to go on.'

'Great,' he muttered, standing to put on his still-soaking trench coat.

'You've got the list, then. Anything productive?'

'Not really,' he said as he folded the sheets and walked toward the door.

'Are you alright?'

'Fine.'

Scully shrugged her shoulders and followed.

* * *

Back in the car, Mulder's mood worsened as they hit a gridlock returning to their hotel. The rain was holding off, but the fog had obviously been too thick for someone who had managed to flip their car and cause a huge tailback. He fiddled with the radio, wound the window down, got too cold, wound it up and flicked on the heating, knocked it off again, revved the engine, sounded the horn.

'You seem a little distracted, Mulder. What's wrong?'

'Why has something got to be wrong? You know I hate jams, especially in this damn weather. Where the hell are the police?' he said, sounding the horn again. 'They could set up a contraflow to re-direct the traffic. People are trying to get home.'

'It's hardly peak time now.'

The car advanced about five feet, then stopped dead again, drawing another groan and press of the horn from Mulder.

'If we're stuck here for a while, I'll look at that list. What did you do with it?'

Mulder reached down into the box in the driver's door and tossed it into her lap.

'Thanks,' she muttered. She opened it out, paused, then folded it back up and let it fall back into her lap. 'Have I done something, Mulder?'

'Why would you think that?'

'I don't know… Maybe it's because you've barely managed a civil word to me since we left the hotel.'

'I'm tired. Frustrated. And sick of goddamned traffic.'

'I know you, and it's more than that.'

'You know me, huh? That's funny, because if you did know me all that well you'd know exactly what was bothering me.'

'Look, I'm tired too, and not in the mood for mind games. If you're going to be - '

'I don't like or need you apologizing for me. Especially to that dick, Callahan.' He pulled the car sharply into the outside lane, drawing blazing horns behind him.

'Excuse me?'

'"_He didn't mean it that way. Sorry if he offended you,_" I believe were your exact words. Then practically telling me to leave.'

'Mulder, I'm… That was an innocent comment to diffuse the situation. I didn't mean to upset you. I thought it was the right thing to do. You were losing your temper.'

'And you don't think I'm capable of speaking for myself?'

'Oh come on, this is silly.'

'I don't like the way that made me feel, Scully. Like as if they were someone else's words coming from your mouth. Like the Bureau apologizing for me. I expected better from you. Above all people. It makes me wonder whether you really are on my side, or are you protecting yourself and the Bureau's interests?'

She stabbed angrily at the switch for the radio to turn it off.

'Where the hell has all this come from, Mulder? This has been blown out of all proportion. How dare you question my loyalty after all I've sacrificed for you! Of course I care about the Bureau, but I care about you, too. I was trying to save you from an assault charge, because that's where I felt you were heading. What the hell is wrong with you?'

Ahead, the cars began to pick up speed and gradually the gridlock cleared.

'There it is again. Something wrong with me. I'm not entitled to feel angry, am I?'

He hung a right sharply into their motel, sped through the car park and slammed the brakes on as he pulled into a space. Scully threw back her seat belt and almost fell out of the car in her efforts to get away from him as quickly as possible.

'You know something, Mulder,' she said, slamming the door, 'as a matter of fact, people did warn me about you. _Spooky_ Mulder, the self-obsessed asshole who didn't give a damn about anything other than chasing Little Green Men and spouting paranoid conspiracy bullshit, but I didn't listen. I wanted to give you a chance. I defended you to those people, I told them how brilliant you were, how much you cared, how you had such intense passion and belief in your work and that the results were there if only they'd give you a chance. I love working with you, and every opportunity I was given to stand up for you, I did.'

Mulder turned his back to her, and stood with one arm against the car for support as he weathered Scully's storm.

'But, I'm beginning to think they were right. You _are_ a narcissistic asshole sometimes. You have one major attitude problem, and if you want to keep your job and your friends, I suggest you take your head out of your ass once in a while and begin to appreciate the people who really believe in you.'

He slammed his palm on the car roof and stalked off.

'Mulder? Mulder!' she called after him. He didn't even turn around.

* * *

He closed his door and slumped back against it as sobs racked his body. All the tension of the last few weeks seemed to suddenly rise to the surface and begin to release themselves with the force of a dam burst through his soul. His grief over Scully's illness, the complete irrationality of his thoughts, his unforgivable attack on her - finally the feelings had found a vent and he couldn't stop them. He knew she hadn't meant anything, he had never doubted her loyalty, so why had he said it? Now, when she most needed him, he had let her down, and even worse, he'd hurt her. Everything of which he had accused her, he was guilty of himself.

Tears fell when he closed his eyes as he asked himself why, over and over, but he knew the answer. His feelings for her terrified him. He loved her, loved her so much that he couldn't bear it. Part of him always had, but he knew it now as surely as day follows night. Why had it taken him so long to realize it? Now, when it was too late to make any difference? He feared for himself, how he would cope without her, and now he hated himself for being so self-involved. It was easier to deny his feelings, to make her walk away because it was easier than losing her. He realized now that it was impossible. How could he forget her? Push her aside? He owed her more. A hell of a lot more. To start with, an apology.

He sat behind the door until the tears finally stopped, then stood shakily and, throwing off his damp clothes, stepped into a hot shower and let the water gently, comfortingly, massage his aching muscles.

Afterwards he made himself a mug of hot chocolate and, wearing only a towel, curled up on the bed to watch a little television and prepare himself for what he knew he had to do. Eventually, he picked up the phone and dialed Scully's room.

'Yes?' she answered dispassionately.

'Hi, Scully. It's me.'

'What do you want? And why do you always have to call in the middle of the night?' Her voice was strange. She was still angry, obviously, but there was something else – she sounded upset.

'I'm sorry. I just…I wanted, I…needed to call you. I owe you another apology.'  
She remained silent, not making it easy for him.

'I know I hurt you. I didn't mean any of the things I said. I'm not thinking straight, I told you that and I…I can't justify it, Scully. Since you told me about your cancer… I don't know how to deal with it. My feelings, my…thoughts…they're confused. I would never question your loyalty to me or the work. I know how much you've sacrificed for me. I'm just so angry for you, and it's all being misdirected at the wrong people. You are the last person who should be taking it. I guess…I'm scared too. I'm so frightened of losing you, Scully, especially when I blame myself for getting you involved in all of this.'

Still silence.

'Are you still there? Look, I'm trying my best here. I don't know what else I can say. I'm not asking you to forgive me - hell, I wouldn't forgive me, just please, talk to me, Dana.'

More silence, then a deep sigh. Mulder hoped it was one of decision.

'We seem to be apologizing to each other a lot lately, don't we?'

'I guess so.' She wasn't ignoring him. At least that was hopeful. He waited, listening to her breathing.

'I think we need to talk, Mulder. Do you want to come over?'

'Right now?'

'Hey, you called me, remember?'

'I'll be right there.' He replaced the receiver, pulled on some pants, a clean T-shirt and his leather jacket and headed next door.

He didn't have to knock, Scully was already holding the door open for him. She remained expressionless as she stood aside for him. She still wore her skirt suit and didn't look as though she'd even attempted to sleep.

Mulder hovered by her desk, feeling very self-conscious, not really knowing what to do with himself until she told him to sit down on the bed next to hers.

'I don't know what to say.' He kept his eyes to the floor, afraid to even look at her or to acknowledge the fact that she had obviously been crying, too.

'You made a good start, Mulder.' He looked up. 'You apologized first. As I said on the phone, I think we need to talk. Or more specifically, you.'

He shook his head sadly. 'I guess I blame myself for what's happening to you. I look at you every day and see you getting on with your life, but I know how worried you are, and I wish I could do something to make things better for you. I feel so frustrated, angry… It's all my fault.'

'Mulder, that's so ridiculous. Why on earth would my cancer have anything to do with you? Why do you think it's your fault?'

He pushed up from the bed, wandered over to the window and pulled the net aside to stare at the sky. Clouds backlit by the half-moon skittered across the stars. Ornamental trees swayed gently in the light breeze.

'I don't think you'd believe me even if I told you, Scully.'

'Maybe that should be down to me to decide.'

He sighed, his breath fogging the frozen window. 'I have reason to believe that your cancer is related to your abduction. Was caused by it. I think you already knew that, but maybe you didn't know that I think the reason you were taken was because of me.'

She shivered, maybe from the draught under the door. 'I don't understand.'

'I don't think I understand it fully myself. It's complicated.'

'Try.'

He saw the hard set of her eyes and knew that she needed to know. He'd kept the truth from her for too long.

'When you were in hospital, just after Penny died, I didn't know what to do with myself. I felt so lost and alone. I needed to do something more constructive, I couldn't accept what the doctors were telling me. I knew there was more to your diagnosis, so I went looking. Your name was on file at a federal fertility clinic - '

'A _fertility_ clinic?' she said incredulously. 'But, Mulder, I've never - '

'I know.' He paused, and sighed. 'That's why I knew it must be related to your abduction. When I looked into that file it contained a gene sequence, the same one that showed up in your blood work when you were returned. Your cancer is a result of your abduction, Scully. They took you away from me and gave you this disease because I was getting too close. They knew I couldn't continue without you.'

He turned to look at her when she remained silent for so long he wondered if she was even still there. She was still on the bed, staring at the floor, her face a mask of anger and shock.

'I don't believe that,' she whispered weakly. 'Mulder, you can't be that important, the work can't be so damaging to them that they would kill me to stop you. Why would they even think that would work?'

'I don't know how close I was, or even to what, but you know they've already killed to protect it. As harsh as it sounds, one more will make no difference to them. They originally assigned you to me to debunk my work, but instead you've given it a scientific credibility and respect I could never have achieved on my own. You are vital to the continuance of the work, and they know that. I think they feel threatened, which was why they chose you. They know we've both seen too much.'

Tears shimmered in her eyes, reflecting the light and making them seem like molten gold. She shook her head in denial, her auburn hair falling across her face.

'They…they can't do that. No, it just doesn't make sense. Mulder, why don't they just shoot me, or shut us down?'

He turned back to the window. 'They tried shutting us down before, and it didn't work. As for the other question, Scully, I don't know. I've gone over it hundreds of times - why they would want you to suffer, and me,' he added quietly, 'I don't know. But since you were diagnosed, nothing we could possibly work on interests me anymore. I just don't care…all I care about is what is happening to you. Maybe that's why.' He tried to stay focused, to stay rational but his voice was betraying his true feelings. He couldn't look at her anymore. He hoped he had said enough.

An empty silence fell, the realization of what was happening was too horrific to even think about. The extents these shadow men would go to in order to protect the truth was incredible. Scully couldn't even begin to deal with what he was trying to tell her, it was just too hard. But what was even harder was seeing the effects that holding these secrets was having on her partner. Mulder looked terrible, drawn, and years older than he actually was.

'Why haven't you talked to me before about this?' Scully whispered.

'Jesus, Dana…because you have enough to deal with without hearing about the issues and feelings I have about all this.' He let the net fall back down and rubbed the back of his neck as he walked over and sat next to her on the bed. 'The reason I'm telling you this now is because I want you to understand that the things I said…' He paused as his voice cracked again. He fought with his rising feelings to continue. 'I didn't mean any of them, you have to believe that. I care about you. You're so important to me, Scully, and thinking that this is my fault for involving you in all this…I can't… It's so hard for me to…' He couldn't help it. He closed his eyes, but the tears still fell. 'I'm sorry, Dana. I've let you down. I'm so sorry.'

She put her hands over his, curling her fingers around them tightly. 'I don't blame you. Do you hear me, Mulder? I'm the one this is happening to and I know it's not your fault. Whether they gave me this disease or not, I don't blame you. It's my choice that I stayed with the X-Files. They murdered my sister, abducted and abused me…this is my fight too. I want the truth just as much as you now.' She tilted his face to hers and wiped away a tear with her thumb as she smiled. 'I need you to stay strong for me. You keep me sane. You make me laugh. You keep me going during moments when I feel like giving up. You and my job give me what I need to fight what's inside me. I don't know what I'd do if you give up now.'

He shuddered as he sighed again. He knew there was more she needed to know, about how the tests or procedures she had gone through had made her infertile, how she could never have children, but she had been hurt enough already and he couldn't bring himself to tell her anymore. He would not allow himself to be used to hurt her.

'How can I live with myself, Scully, when I think about what I said to you…'

'Mulder, forget about it. It's not important. Please. There's been enough of this…_pain_.'

He nodded weakly as she slipped her arms around him. He returned her embrace, enjoying the sweet smell of her perfume and floral scent of her hair. She felt so good in his arms, so right. _God_, how he loved her. But until she showed some sign that his feelings would be returned, he could never tell her and spoil what they had right now. Even when she was so ill. _Especially_ when she was so ill.

'Are you okay?' she asked, pulling away.

'Yeah,' he smiled, 'I am now.'

'I'm glad we talked.'

'So am I. I'm glad you understand. I can be an asshole sometimes.'

'All the time.'

He laughed as he grudgingly rose and headed for the door.

'Mulder?'

'Uh-huh?'

'Do you…would you mind staying here? On the sofa, I mean,' she felt the need to quickly add. 'I just…could…you know…use some company.'

'Sure,' he smiled. 'I could use a little company tonight myself.'

She tossed him a spare duvet from the closet and one of her pillows. 'I just hope you don't snore.'

* * *

Scully was woken by the high pitched chirping of her cell phone whilst it was still dark. Cursing, she fumbled around on the nightstand to find it and knocked over the lamp in the process. 'Shit,' she muttered, then found the glowing LCD display flashing in time with the ringing and hit receive.

Underneath the window on the far side of the room, she saw Mulder's arm reaching up to open the curtains as she spoke to Officer Callahan.

'Jeez, Scully, you give one hell of a wake-up call,' said Mulder when she'd finally thrown the phone across the bed, rolled over and pulled the duvet back up around her. 'Who was it?'

'Officer Callahan,' she replied, 'He wants us to meet him at the station later. There's a John Moorsfield down there working with a sketch artist. Seems he may have seen Conner in the kitchen the night the Reverend died.'

'That's good,' he yawned, throwing aside the covers and sitting up, 'I suppose I'd better take a shower then. I'll meet you at the car at…What time is it?'

'Too damn early. Six thirty.'

'Okay, at the car in about an hour.'

'Sure, okay.' Sighing, she pulled herself out of bed and switched the overhead light on. 'By the way, thanks for staying last night. It makes a nice change to have someone to talk to in the morning.'

'Don't you go getting any ideas, Agent Scully,' he smirked, pulling his shirt back on as he approached her and kissed her cheek. 'Thanks for forgiving. I like having someone to say Good Morning to as well. And you're so much prettier than my fish.'

'Well, gee, thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special.'

'I try. Maybe we should do this more often,' he quipped as he left.

'In your dreams, Mulder,' she smiled after him.


End file.
